After
by aeoliandeductress
Summary: Currently a one shot look at John's dealing with Sherlock's demise. I may or may not choose to add to it. This is my first published attempt at fanfiction; so if anyone feels my rating is off, please do not hesitate to let me know.


**After**

He roamed most nights, alone and grateful for the cover of London fog. It enveloped him, masked his emptiness from the well-meaning strangers who pried as to what was wrong.

"What's right?!" he had shouted at the last such intrusion, only mildly shocked at his lack of self-control. Captain John Watson, disciplined army doctor, was no more. What remained was a man haunted by words unsaid, touches unfelt, and a series of visions and nightmares so intertwined that at this juncture he could no longer tell them apart.

Sherlock had always been the one with insomnia- not him. He could sleep through a war zone or the frantic off-key, half-finished songs of his flatmate's violin. But that was before.

He'd made him watch. He'd probably thought John could handle it. After all, he'd seen men die in a myriad of horrendous circumstances. Often, he'd held their hand as they attempted to spew out coherent last words of devotion to whomever they loved through blood and pain. He'd always been able to care and then compartmentalize. Dr. Watson was strong enough to endure all of that, a thousand times over.

But not this. Not Sherlock reaching for him as he lied about his abilities for God only knew what reason. Not feeling his own arm rise and reach back, futilely of course. Hearing the choked goodbye, seeing the phone cast aside and in that moment of indecision, caught between sprinting up all four flights of Bart's steps or screaming stop at the top of his lungs- caught in the eerie silence of that moment, he watched him fall. And not just that day, no. John watched his best mate fall every hour of every day since.

The days after Sherlock's suicide had been a haze- his emotions so consuming he could barely distinguish shapes and colors. He'd bumped into things, forgotten to eat and bathe, barely existed. Then his sister had shown up… due to a phone call from Mrs. Hudson no less.

"Come now, Johnny. You have to eat," she nagged, spooning up oatmeal and poking it at him like he was a bloody toddler. The rational part of his mind tried to tell him she meant well, but all he felt was her overbearing, irritating presence trying to crowd out his sorrow. He didn't want it fucking pushed out. It may have ached unbearably, but that sorrow was where Sherlock lived now.

He felt him all the time- even heard and saw him occasionally during his waking hours. At first he hated it- it hurt too damn much. There were too many feelings to sort through- guilt, anger, hurt, confusion, sadness, lack, love… that last one in particular left him befuddled. Eventually he stopped trying to sort them and forced them into a giant messy throb, a dull but constant ache of misery. In doing so, he found Sherlock's "visits", fantastical as they were, now brought momentary joy rather than intense pain. In these moments, he could forget or better yet, rewind the clock and rewrite scenes as they should have gone. Take advantage of moments he passed up… moments of silence that he now filled with thousands of different scripts, praying he'd find the magic words that would undo Sherlock's great vanishing act.

"Don't leave me… I'll be so alone… I don't want to be alone again," he'd mumble the one-sided conversations to himself as he wandered down avenues and alleys. He only ever paused to invest in the homeless network of which Sherlock had been so fond. He told himself he was doing it in Sherlock's honor; that it was a proper way to memorialize the man who'd left him his entire trust. Yet he knew it wasn't true.

Because despite what he'd seen with his own eyes, there was a piece of John Watson that still believed in miracles… at least those created by Sherlock Holmes. Despite what he'd seen, there was a sliver of hope in him that dared to believe this could be undone. That Sherlock would rise again like bloody Lazarus. That Sherlock would grant his graveside request and stop all this. He'd seen him die, but he found odd comfort in a favorite line of his friend's.

"As ever, dear John, you see but you don't observe." As of now, he could only hope it was true.


End file.
